We Are A Dark Mirror
by mixedup77
Summary: AU. Dean and Castiel are rival serial killers, leaving messages and taunting each other from afar. If that bothers you, please don't read.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** _They're serial killers. You know what that means. Read at your own risk._

Usual disclaimer: _I don't own Supernatural. I never did. Nor will I ever. But please don't sue me anyway because I'm not making any money off of this._

**Author's Note:**_This story was inspired by a gifset that I saw on Tumblr and I just couldn't let it go. So here I am. Writing Dean and Castiel as serial killers. Obviously this is an AU. And I feel _incredibly_ guilty. XD But I wrote it anyway. I'm sorry, Castiel. And Dean. But mostly Castiel._

_This is just part one. I'll update as soon as I get the rest of the story edited. In the meantime, please excuse any mistakes you find. And thanks for reading._

* * *

**WE ARE A DARK MIRROR**

**Part One -**

The first time is almost depressingly easy. A stripper of course because you don't mess with a classic. All it takes is a wink and his careful smile and the chick is all over him, dragging him to the alley out back of the club. She seems so into it that he lets her go for a bit, writhing against him and kissing like her life depends on it. Which it does in a way. When she reaches into his jeans, Dean finally loses the last of his patience, whipping the chick around and into the brick wall face first. She hits with a groan and a stifled squawk.

"What the fuck, asshole?" she says, talking straight into the bricks as he presses a hand to the back of her neck.

"Quiet." There's a swish when he pulls the knife from beneath his coat. A snap as he tugs on gloves. And all the while, he keeps her pinned to the wall like a butterfly.

She starts to whimper just before he makes the first cut. A thin, childish cry.

He bends in close to her ear. "I said quiet." Too bad he didn't bring some tape. A slit throat silences her just as easily. She gasps, struggles weakening by the second. Then it's short work to slice and dice to his heart's content. She bleeds out pretty, spilling red down the brick like a waterfall.

A door at the back of the club opens before he's claimed his prize and Dean swears, slipping into the darkness with bloody knife and hands and a swelling ego.

He did it.

* * *

The church is silent this late at night. No penitent souls. No mournful prayers to carry up to God. Just… stillness underlain with the guttural murmur of pleading through duct tape. Father Benedict hunches over the kneeler, face red and sweating, a swath of duct tape wrapping his mouth and another keeping his hands folded together in prayer. His eyes roll madly, trying to pinpoint the source of the echoing footsteps he's hearing so Castiel takes his time, stepping lightly until he makes no more noise than a trailing shadow. He's directly behind the priest before the man is any the wiser.

"Have you asked forgiveness for your sins, father?" Castiel asks quietly, watching as the priest jumps and tries to turn around, pulling against the tape holding him in place.

The priest shakes his head, the speed of his words increasing until it's nothing but a cacophony of gibberish and cries for salvation. The sweat is already loosening the tape over his mouth. Given enough time he might even be able to free himself.

Castiel rounds the kneeler, brushing his coat aside and crouching down in front of the priest. He's shaking now. Shaking and sweating like a demon on holy ground. But not penitent. Castiel can see it in his eyes. The defiance. Castiel licks his parched lips once before speaking with precision. "You are an abomination before God."

The priest goes into a frenzy then, wailing and throwing himself as far as the tape will allow. Castiel waits patiently for him to calm, still on bended knee, head cocked to the side. When the priest falls silent again, Castiel puts a gentle hand to his cheek. "May God have mercy on your soul." Then he's up, wire wound around the priest's throat pulled tight. It's over quickly. A flurry of movement and then nothing. Castiel unwinds the wire, coiling it back into the pocket of his coat, and lets the priest slump against the top of the kneeler. To the casual observer, he would seem to be deep in prayer.

Castiel bows his head, whispering a near silent prayer and crossing himself before he leaves the church.

* * *

Dean searches the paper for news of his conquest. Page after page of stock quotes and helpful hints on how to balance a household budget. No sign of a murdered stripper. He hadn't finished but it should have been enough. Finally he finds it, buried near the back, hardly a blip on the radar, reported as a possible crime of passion.

"Crime of passion, my ass!" Dean growls. He crumples the entire paper into a ball and tosses it at the garbage can, missing by at least a foot. Then he flips on the TV.

By some cosmic irony, the news is on, knee deep into a report about a local murder. For a moment, Dean sits up, all attention, but the victim was a priest. He sits back, smiling despite himself. Now there's a twist. Interesting.

When the news moves on to sports, Dean gets up and snatches the mangled paper from the floor. And there on the front page, down in the corner is a picture of the recently murdered priest, the article saying much the same as the TV had. No leads. Victim beaten and strangled. Dean smashes it back into a ball and jams it deep into the garbage can. It should have been him on the front page.

* * *

Castiel comes out of his week of solitude to find the city a flurry of activity and paranoia. He automatically checks the date, wondering if perhaps he'd kept himself locked away longer than he'd intended and missed some important event. But it's been only seven days since he passed judgment on Father Benedict. Seven days of prayer, right down to the hour. No more.

Every news report on the television flashes pictures of a pair of pretty young women wearing too much makeup. The same pictures are on every newspaper, splashed across the front page like an advertisement for irresponsibility. At the grocery store, Castiel finally bothers to read the headline accompanying the pictures. He nestles his shopping basket on one arm and takes up the newspaper, brow furrowing as he reads.

_Another murder…_

_Possible links to an earlier crime…_

_City in fear…_

The details on the deaths are scarce, but one thing stands out above all others. _Last seen leaving St. Mary Catherine's together after the wake of Father Trent Benedict…_

Two girls snatched from the parish of Castiel's last victim on the day of the wake. It's too much to be a coincidence. And the police were using it as an excuse to pin these sloppy, pointless murders on him.

Castiel drops the newspaper into his basket, intent on finishing his shopping as quickly as possible. He needs to get home and write a letter.

* * *

Dean whistles his way through work with his head stuffed under car hoods and hands coated in grease. His latest conquest has been all over the news for days. No leads. Terrible tragedy. Of course the police claimed he was the one who killed that priest the other day but that wasn't a big deal. Dean is happy to take the extra credit if that keeps the story in the papers.

Sid pokes his head into the garage, clapping a hand on the wall to get Dean's attention. "Winchester, you in for a beer?"

"Yeah." Dean straightens, wiping his hands on a rag and dropping the hood back into place. "I'm done."

Sid shoots him a smile. Then he heads back into the office, flipping off lights as he goes.

* * *

The bar is dark and boisterous. Just the kind of place that Dean would like to hunt but the persistent presence of the guys from the garage keeps his attention focused elsewhere. Namely on the parade of women heading up to the bar.

Sid points out another, a blond this time and at least ten years too young for him. "What about that one?" he asks and a noise of approval goes around the table.

"Whatsa matter, Dean?" Gordon says, smile mocking and face shiny with sweat from the stifling heat. "Not your type either?"

Dean shrugs and glances at her again. Long legs peek from beneath her too short skirt. What he'd like is to get out of here, find a quiet alley somewhere, and find out what color red she bleeds. But he doesn't say that. That would give the game away. He turns back to the table. "I'd hit that," he says with a grin and peace is restored at the table.

Ash nods and puts up a fist. "Hell yeah."

Over the bar, the TV switches from the latest baseball game straight into the blue background of a breaking news report. A somber faced reporter with overly gelled hair fills the screen. His words are muted but a second later a box appears in the corner, the words _Fallen Angel Killer_ filling it.

"Turn that shit off," someone snaps and the channel gets changed to more mindless fun and games. But for Dean the night has just come to a screeching halt. Somehow he knows what those words mean even though he's never heard them before.

"Hey, I gotta get home," Dean says, downing the last of his beer and scooting his chair back before anyone thinks to stop him.

"What? Ya just got here." Sid's mouth hangs open, eyes wide and glazed. It's the look that Gordon shoots his way that makes Dean pause. The predatory glint. It's a dare that he's just waiting to voice.

So Dean settles back down, hooking a foot around the chair leg and trying to smile like he means it. "Okay, you talked me into it." He doesn't care for the way Gordon smiles at him and gives a little nod. "I'll get the next round."

Three hours later, Dean crouches in front of the TV like an animal ready to pounce. He glares at the words on the screen as the reporters lay out the story in sound bites.

_A letter signed Fallen Angel, received earlier today…_

_Contained information not previously reported…_

_The mysterious writer claims responsibility for the murder of Father Trent Benedict…_

Dean feels like putting a boot through the screen. "Son of a bitch," he snaps at the TV instead, pacing the tiny living room. That bastard. Stealing his thunder. Again.

Copies of the letter had been sent out to every TV station and newspaper in the area, arriving earlier that day.

_To whom it may concern,_ says the letter.

_Father Benedict was unfit for the cloth, an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, but his death was an act of compassion. In pain and suffering, his soul was purified. I pray that God has been merciful in his final judgment of Father Benedict._

_However, the Lord had no designs on these women, Tara Campbell and Felicity Reed, which you have attributed to me. But have no fear. I am a soldier of God. He guides my hand. Through Him I will find the perpetrator and mete out His justice. Have faith._

_Sincerely,_

_Fallen Angel_

It was all so carefully worded. Like a scholarly Jack the Ripper. The news wouldn't stop talking about this shit but all Dean could hear was the threat.

This Angel asshole thought he would find him? Well, Dean had news for him. Soldier of God or not, that asshole would bleed. And Dean would be there when he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two -**

At first, Castiel had entertained a vague hope that his letter would be enough to dissuade the murderer that lured away those two young women. But barely two weeks pass before death hangs in the air like a foul breeze.

The video is the last straw.

It wasn't enough anymore to butcher young women in privacy, leaving the remains like scraps for vultures. This time, the murderer had spirited away just one man but the video that surfaced assured he wouldn't soon be forgotten. It was delivered to television stations and police unmarked. No fingerprints to trace back to the killer. In a plain manila envelope, the killer made his own declaration of war. It also earned him a proper nickname, the Judas Killer, and a morbidly thrilled audience.

The reporter interrupts Castiel's program on local history to announce the latest development in the serial killer's rampage. "The footage you're about to see was discovered earlier today. It is not for sensitive viewers." She pauses, glancing to the side as she waits for the video feed to replace her.

When the video begins, there's nothing but a room and a man in a chair. A bare light bulb overhead, gently swaying, paints shadows along the walls while the man in the chair shakes like a sapling in a storm. Then another figure comes into view, tall and broad, face covered by a ski mask.

"_This is for you… Angel."_ His tone is gruff but strangely cheerful. _"Come and get me."_

With a flourish, he holds up the knife in one gloved hand. It's nothing special, certainly not the oversized stage prop Castiel would have expected. The blade is a sensible seven or eight inches long, sharpened to a wicked edge. Obviously well cared for. The masked man smiles and winks at the camera. The video stops as he turns away. The reporter fills the screen again. "The police are asking for any information that could be used to identify this man," she says. The TV keeps going, talking facts and figures, but Castiel ignores them.

A still shot of the masked man and his knife appears in the corner over the reporter's shoulder. Castiel presses his hand to the screen. The Judas Killer. It's fitting. And now, more than ever, Castiel wants to watch him hang.

Castiel stares into the shadowed eyes beneath the mask. "Guide my hand, Father," he prays.

* * *

All the recent victims had been culled from St. Mary Catherine's so Castiel starts there, looking for anything that might point him towards his goal. It doesn't take long. This Judas has not been quite as clever as he thinks.

"Everyone is terrified," Anna says, hugging a child against her legs. Castiel spares a glance for the little boy. He's small and round cheeked with diamond bright eyes. Pure, uncorrupted innocence. Castiel smiles down on the child and pats him on the head. The little boy smiles back before scurrying away to the playground beside the church school. He disappears in the jumble of children around the slide. "There are police everywhere. I've been getting calls all week from parents pulling their kids out of the school. If this keeps up, I don't know what we'll do."

"The Lord will provide," Castiel says.

Anna nods. "I forgot how Zen you always were, Castiel. Nothing bothers you, does it?"

"Certain things do," he says, thinking back to the flash of a cheeky smile and silver knife. Every moment of it is etched into his memory already. "You were telling me about a car."

She frowns at the abrupt change of subject but she agrees after a moment. "Yeah. A few days ago. Just before…" Anna pauses, eyelashes fluttering. "Just before Daniel… disappeared."

"Did you mention this to the police?"

Her deep red hair falls into her eyes as she shakes her head. "No. I completely forgot about the car until yesterday. Then I saw it again and… I should call them."

Castiel forces his hands to unclench and evens his tone before he speaks. "Are you sure it was the same one? There must be a number of cars in the city that you could have mistaken for it."

"A red El Camino?" Anna snorts. "I don't think so."

* * *

Dean lounges on his chair, legs kicked out in front of him, beer in hand, watching the drunks and the flirting girls in the bar. Even the plastered ramblings of Sid aren't enough to distract Dean from the urge tonight.

Things have been quiet since he killed that guy, gutted him clean, and let him spill out over the floor. It was better than Dean had expected. Taking his time, playing up for the camera. He'd liked it. It had a different feel than his back alley slice and dice. Leisurely. Precise. And satisfying. He'd imagined it was Angel in that chair. A pound of Angel's flesh that he was taking as his due. Dean could have played all night with that one. It didn't matter that he'd stopped whimpering and crying, that his body was already growing cold. Dean had lavished attention on his makeshift Angel until there was nothing left to cut. But it's been days since then and the urge is back. Twice as strong. If Angel doesn't make his move soon, Dean will make it for him.

"Something on your mind, Winchester?" Gordon speaks up from across the table. He tosses back the rest of his beer, setting it beside him on the table. His dark eyes never leave Dean.

Dean stares back, waiting for the other man to look away or drop his gaze.

"Should I leave you two alone or something?" Ash asks, cutting into the silent exchange. "Why are you staring at each other?"

Dean throws a wink at Gordon, a smile creeping onto his face, before he turns to Ash. "Nothing, man. Gordon's been after my ass for years." He pats a hand over his chest. "No shame in admitting it, Gordon."

Gordon's scowl increases, one corner of his mouth sinking lower than the other. Dean's familiar with the look. Gordon has been aiming that face his way ever since he found out Dean took his car for an unscheduled joyride. "Watch yourself, Winchester." He points one blunt tipped finger across the table. Whatever else he meant to say is drowned out by Ash's sudden burst of knee slapping laughter. Gordon curls his fingers into a fist and shoves his chair back from the table. Dean half expects him to start swinging but he doesn't. "I'm outta here."

Ash calls after him halfheartedly, still snickering. "I think he's mad, Dean."

"Looks that way," Dean says, smiling into his beer.

* * *

Gordon stomps out into the parking lot, muttering under his breath and shaking the keys in his fist. "Bastard Winchester…" He passes from one puddle of light to the next, rounding the side of the building to where he parked his car. The place had been packed earlier but now the lot is nearly deserted, clustered with makeshift islands of waiting cars. His sits alone under a light, glowing like a cherry on a neon sundae.

He's a step away from the driver's side door when he realizes that there's already someone in the driver's seat, hands on the steering wheel like he's ready to take off. "What the hell, asshole," Gordon growls, throwing the door open. "You one of Winchester's friends?"

The guy turns his head, slow as an ancient machine, and fixes Gordon with his too blue to be real gaze. "This is an unusual car. A red El Camino." The guy's voice is so low that Gordon barely hears it. He slips from the car like a ghost and Gordon steps back without thinking.

That wasn't the response Gordon had been expecting. He pauses. "Are you high?" He grabs for the lapel of the guy's trench coat, ready to toss him aside and be on his way. The whole thing is too damn weird for him. His fingers barely brush the material. The world spins and Gordon's arm is levered up behind his back and he's on his knees.

"I have some questions for you."

* * *

There's a moan as Gordon stirs.

Castiel checks his page number and sets his book aside.

"What the fuck, man?" Gordon grunts, struggling in earnest now and wincing at the throbbing in his head. A trickle of blood runs down his temple, shining in the dim light. It snakes down his cheek and dots the rope around his neck. His hands are duct taped behind his back. The tape pulls at his skin but doesn't give when he yanks at it. "What the fuck is this?"

There's no fear in his eyes, Castiel notes. Not yet anyway. It's pure anger. The rage of someone who never imagined they would be punished. It reminds him of Father Benedict.

Gordon slants his head as much as the rope will allow, looking around, looking for an out. His eyes never stop moving, not for a long time. Then he turns back to Castiel. "Let me go." His eyes bore into Castiel's. It's amusing that he thinks he can threaten anyone from the position he's in. But he tries.

Finally Castiel straightens and brushes his coat off. The tree branch supporting the noose bounces and shivers with every one of Gordon's movements but it's sturdy. There's no doubt that it'll hold. Gordon follows Castiel's gaze up, throat straining against the noose. Slowly understanding dawns. He shimmies like a magician in a straightjacket but this is no trick and there's no hidden key to getting free.

"If you keep moving, you'll fall," Castiel says. His warning is soft but Gordon stops immediately, teeth bared in a growl. The bench he's perched on is already wobbling away from him.

"I've been following you," Castiel begins. He stands stiff, like a stone angel instead of a person. The breeze ruffles his hair. "I thought perhaps you were the Judas that I'd been looking for but I see that I was mistaken. You're not him."  
"What the hell are you talking about?" Gordon teeters as he tugs at the tape binding his wrists again. Castiel doesn't tell him that it's pointless. Better to let him think he might succeed.

"Your car, it's very…different. The only one in the area surprisingly."

"What's your point, asshole?"

Castiel looks up into Gordon's sneer. "Your car was seen outside St. Mary Catherine's just before someone disappeared. A man named, Daniel MacDonald. Do you know anything about that?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. I didn't go to any damn church."

"I believe you. But… if not you then who?" Castiel asks with quiet patience. The thin branches of the trees rustle and swish in the wind. The weather is turning cold early this year. He places a hand on the rope anchored to the tree, fingers curling just above the knot. "I found many interesting things in your car. Some photographs for example. Though you're not the man I seek, I believe there's a reason God led me to you."

Without warning, Castiel tugs down on the rope under his hand. It goes taut, pulling Gordon to the tips of his toes. He grunts as he tries to hold on to the bench beneath him.

"This will be much easier if you tell me what you know. Why was your car at St. Mary Catherine's?"

Gordon sputters again, gagging and hacking at the weight of the rope around his neck. Finally he manages to spit out one cracked word. "Winchester."

Castiel frowns but he lets go of the length of rope in his hand.

"It was Winchester," Gordon pants. His chest expands with his heaving breaths. "Winchester took my car."

"Winchester?" Castiel waits, head cocked to the side.

"Dean. Cocky asshole. Works at the garage." The words are broken up by coughs and gasps. "He stole my car. Had to be him." Gordon hacks again, rolling his head as if that will loosen the noose digging into his flesh. "Now let me down, man. I told you what you wanted to know." He looks at Castiel, eyes wide in the dark.

Castiel nods slowly. "Thank you." He turns the name over in his mind and saves it for later. Winchester. An unusual name.

Gordon is still. Finally. Waiting. Mouth open and gulping air. Castiel smiles benignly into the kernel of hope blooming in Gordon's eyes. "May God have mercy on your soul," he says. Then he shoves the bench out from beneath Gordon's feet. It barely has time to register before the rope pulls taut, snapping against the branch like a whip.

"Winchester," Castiel says again, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and writing it down.

* * *

Author's Note_: Sorry for the unforeseen delay. Nanowrimo really snuck up on me this year and stole away all my writing and editing time. I had this written ages ago and just couldn't find the time to polish it up. I hope it's sparkly enough for you guys. (And mostly typo free.)_

_Thanks again for reading. And for being patient. Hope you enjoyed part 2._


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3-**

Dean's under a piece of shit Toyota when he hears the footsteps coming. Sid appears a moment later, talking loud enough to drown out Lynyrd Skynyrd on the radio. Whoever's with him clears their throat with a cough.

"Uh, Dean?" Sid says. He rocks back and forth, his feet visible from where Dean's lying. Must be serious business. Sid only fidgets when he's nervous.

Dean smoothes his face into careful confusion and slides out from under the car. The owners of the heavy footsteps are two guys in cheap suits. Cops. Dean can tell just by looking at them. He takes his time wiping his hands on a rag that's already grey with grease, waiting for someone else to start them off.

"Dean, these guys—" Sid says before he's cut off by the older of the cops.

"I'm Detective Singer. This is Detective Holt. We'd like to ask you a few questions." The guy has the slight twang of an accent in his voice and a face that looks permanently disappointed.

Dean raises his eyebrows in almost sincere surprise. He's been careful and the fact that he's not bent over a car listening to the recitation of his Miranda Rights means they're not here for him. The detectives are staring at him without a hint of suspicion and Dean is immediately intrigued. "Yeah sure. What's this about?"

"We'll ask the questions," says the guy named Holt. He crosses his arms over his chest, threatening to bust the seams in his ill fitting jacket if he breathes too deeply. "Where were you last night? Say around… 11pm?"

"Bar down by the highway with the guys. Sid was there too." Dean glances at Sid. He's still looking a little hung over, probably enough that he would agree to anything Dean says whether it was true or not.

"Who else was there with you?"

Dean thinks a second even though he could recite the names backwards and forward and in alphabetical order if he had to. "Sid, Gordon, Ash. Andy was there for a little while but he left early. Specific enough for ya?" he finishes with a crooked smile, just a hint of disrespect for the law to show he has nothing to hide.

Holt writes it all down in a little book while the Singer guy gives Dean the staredown. "What time did Gordon Walker leave?"

Interesting question there. Dean frowns. "Don't know. Probably around 10 or so. Wasn't really keeping track."

"Anyone else leave with him?"

Dean shrugs. "Not that I saw. He had a tantrum about something. Stormed out."

"And you don't remember what?" Holt asks abruptly with a pointed stare.

"Not really no. Happens all the time. He's not exactly Suzie Sunshine."

There's a long pause then as Holt and Singer exchange meaningful looks and head nods. Finally Singer turns back to Dean. "Have you watched the news today, Mr. Winchester?"

The coy question gives Dean pause. Obviously he's missed something. It's hard not to smile. This game is getting more and more entertaining. "Nope. Been working since eight this morning."

"Gordon Walker is dead," Singer says.

"Murdered," Holt adds looking a little too pleased by the green look of surprise that crosses Sid's face.

"I didn't know," Dean says honestly. He feigns a little worry for their benefit but he keeps his happy surprise tamped down. That's one loose end he won't have to take care of himself. "How did he die?"

"Hanged."

"Thought you said it was murder…"

"Mr. Winchester," Singer begins, cutting into whatever it is that his partner intended to say. "We believe that this is the work of the Fallen Angel serial killer. Do you know anyone who might have had a grudge against Mr. Walker? An ex-girlfriend? A business partner?"

"Not really. The guy didn't have a lot of friends to begin with."

They ask a few more questions that Dean can't answer, at least not without giving away the game, and then shuffle on their way. As soon as the door closes behind them, Dean turns up the radio, humming along to Dancing Days by Led Zeppelin as he slides back under the Toyota he was working on before he was interrupted. Things are looking up.

He might have to thank Angel for that. Right before he guts him.

* * *

Dean is still smiling when he hits the bar that night, alone this time. Sid's still nursing a hangover and Ash has a hot date with some girl he met on the internet. Andy announced last night that he was heading out on another of his cross country "journeys of self discovery." Dean figures he should be back in a month, sunburned and stoned out of his mind.

In the meantime, Dean sets himself up at their usual table and kicks his feet up on one of the empty chairs to relax with a few beers. The place is subdued tonight. Murder must be bad for business. Not that Dean minds. If he'd known a few dead bodies would make it so he could belly up to the bar without clotheslining someone, he might have taken up his hobby sooner.

One of the waitresses slips past his table, running a hand over Dean's shoulder. "You need a refill, hon?" She smiles down at him. Winks.

"That'd be great." Dean smiles back with every bit of his good cheer. He can already imagine the way he'd slice her open, peel back her flesh like an orange rind. But he's in the mood for a little extra fun first tonight. All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy.

When she brings his beer, Dean glances at the nametag pinned to her checkered shirt. "Betsy, huh? That's a pretty name."

She giggles like he knew she would. "It sounds like a doll's name, huh? Like one of those American Girls."

But Dean isn't listening anymore. His eyes slide away to the TV in the corner. The sound is down like always but it's clear from the caption at the bottom what's going on. _Local candidate, Sam Winchester, speaks out about recent rash of murders._

"I'll bet he does," Dean mutters into his beer as he takes a swig.

Betsy looks stricken at his sudden loss of interest but she takes it well enough, pulling herself up to her full five foot nothing height and heading back to the bar without another word.

The guy on the screen is on the younger side, hair a little too long for his crisp suit. He's got a briefcase in one hand, descending the steps of the courthouse like a lawyer in a John Grisham movie. His mouth turns down at the corners and he shakes his head. When he does his hair flips likes he's in one of those shampoo commercials.

Dean can practically hear it. _"We need to stop these ruffians before they strike again. My Chihuahua Fifi is absolutely terrified. She won't even go out to tinkle." _Dean snickers. The guy looks like the type to own one of those little football dogs, the kind that fit in a pocket or a frilly pink purse. Probably has a cute little girlfriend at home just like his cute little dog. Cries over chick flicks and talks about his feelings. Dean hates him already.

Dean takes another gulp of his beer, happily building an entire yuppie life for the guy on the screen who's probably talking about how Dean's lack of hugs as a child led to his urge to slice people in half.

Dean spins his beer on the table beside him, watching the news despite himself, wondering just what it is that this guy is saying about him. The story changes to something else, football players running across the screen, dancing over yet another touchdown.

A familiar mop of brown hair eclipses the TV. Dean does a double take. Couldn't be.

But it is.

Sam Winchester, Mr. Briefcase himself. He didn't look so big on the TV screen but in person he's like a movable mountain. A moose with too long hair. Dean's half surprised that his head doesn't graze the ceiling as he makes his way to the back of the bar.

He settles into a booth in the corner with a shady looking brunette hanging on his arm like a wet rag. They're barely there ten seconds before she's got her tongue in his ear. It's like porn without the pesky plot. Dean stares at them full on, half expecting Mr. Briefcase to catch him in the act. But he doesn't. He's too busy rubbing circles on the woman's hip and doing a shitty job of hiding the tent in his fashionable jeans.

This just gets better and better. They're barely inches away from public indecency, probably came all the way out to the 'burbs just for the questionable anonymity of this particular bar. So much for Mr. Briefcase and his shiny new career as a politician.

But no one is paying them any mind. Except Dean of course. He's the only one who sees the chick slip him a little bag of something whitish and definitely illegal.

Dean nearly chokes on his beer at that. This is the best show he's had in ages. He sits forward, feet flat on the floor, beer forgotten in hand as the two of them grope and whisper with heads bent together. The guy passes money back to the woman and she nests it in her cleavage like they do in the movies. When they leave a little while later, Dean would be willing to bet money that they're headed to a cheap motel for a night of fun. He kinda wonders if she charges for that too or if that bit's free.

The bar seems quiet with them gone.

Dean doesn't usually like to shit where he eats but the little show he just witnessed left him feeling worked up. It's too much to resist the temptation. His eyes drift over to Betsy. So guileless, always batting her eyelashes at him. She's practically begging him to take her out back and fuck her senseless. Of course that's not quite what Dean has in mind but close enough. He has enough time to play with her a while before he finishes the job. Maybe take her to a motel, do it up right. They can slow dance and listen to Van Morrisson. Dean can be patient this time because he knows it'll be so much better when he finally does the job. He can draw it out with hours of foreplay if he has to. He has to make it last. Make it count. The next target won't be anywhere so easy. Best to get his kicks while he can.

So when Betsy swings by his table again Dean's ready for her.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks with an unsubtle tilt of her ample cleavage in his direction.

"How about your phone number?" Dean suggests.

She smiles wide with pink lips and straight teeth. She takes care of herself. That's good. "I get off in a few hours," she counters.

"Really now." Dean leans forward, smiling his choir boy smile.

* * *

Dean trots up the two short steps to his back door, keys jingling in his hand. It has been an enlightening day. Probably the best he's had in years. He almost misses the jet back shadow as it slips past his shoulder.

He throws up a hand, catching the wire just before it goes taut around his neck. It slides over his palm like fire, biting into the flesh and threatening to cut clean through. His unseen attacker gives the wire another tug. They both trip backwards down the steps.

The guy has a grip on him. Dean has to give him that one.

Dean works his other hand under the wire before it can cut him in half at the neck but just as he's getting a grip on it it zips away, slithering from his grip like a snake.

Dean spins on his attacker, fists up. What he finds is not what he expected. Not by a long shot.

The guy is wearing a tan flasher coat. Ordinary. Like a Jehovah's Witness. Dean could have walked past him ten times and not noticed a thing if it wasn't for those ocean blue eyes, sharp as a hawk's watching his every move.

"Dean Winchester," says the guy and Dean can't help chuckling. The voice is so serious, like he's never laughed at a joke in his life. And it's sharp as gargled glass. "I've been looking for you."

Dean takes another second to look him up and down. He'd suspected. The moment he saw that shadow at his back, he suspected. But greeting just confirms it. "Well, well, well. The fallen Angel. You're smaller than I expected."

His answer is a glare that could melt stone.

Dean snickers. "You didn't think I was gonna make it easy, didja?" He pulls his knife, making sure the Angel gets the full show. The silver glint of the blade in the dim light. A clean canvas waiting for a wash of blood.

"No. I didn't."

The guy moves like lightning but this time Dean is ready. Dodging and ducking, this is a dance he's good at. They trade blows like playing cards. An uppercut to the jaw. A grazing kick to the ribs. The Angel knocks Dean on his ass with a punch to the stomach. He bares his teeth, wheezing for air. Then the guy comes at him again. Dean sweeps his legs out from under him. Angel fights without making a sound. He's silent as the grave and twice as serious. A flash of eyes in the dark. The swish of his oversized coat. Dean hasn't had this much fun in years. This is a fight worth having. He would laugh if he had enough breath left to do it.

They tumble and roll, picking up dirt and a collection of bruises that will be a bitch in the morning. The Angel wrenches Dean's wrist almost hard enough to break it, trying to get the upper hand. Dean smiles. Then he headbutts him.

It stuns Angel long enough for Dean to free his knife hand. The gush of blood from Angel's side is the reward he's been seeking for months. The satisfaction he's needed. The man gasps, falling back into the grass and scuttling away like a crab.

Dean climbs to his feet, taking his time.

The guy's wearing a stuffy black suit under his trench coat, tie askew despite the overall neatness of the rest of him. Dark blood is already soaking the side of his shirt.

"Gotcha," Dean says. "But don't worry. I'll make it really, really slow for you." He grins.

The Angel is back on his feet, hand pressed to his side. His head dips, a wince curling his lip, before his eyes meet Dean's again. "You will be judged." He falters back a step.

"You keep talking while you can, Angel boy. Show me how much energy you got. I've been waiting months for this. I don't want it to be over too soon."

The Angel straightens with a visible effort. "You will be judged," he repeats. Then he turns and flees, coat flapping behind him like wings.

It's so unexpected that Dean stays rooted to the ground until he's almost out of sight. He's had the Angel's blood on his hands. He's had his life in his grasp. And now it's disappearing like sand. Dean takes off after him, vaulting over a fence and sprinting through the next yard.

The Angel makes it to the corner before Dean spots him again. The streetlight hangs over him like a spotlight painting silver highlights in Angel's hair. There's nothing ahead but the orderly sprawl of houses and two story flats. Angel's fast but he's injured. He trips, falling heavily into a car parked on the street.

Dean smiles. He's got him. He's got him.

Just as he thinks it, Angel pulls open the car door and tumbles across the seat.

No. Dammit. No. Dean sprints the last few steps but the car speeds away before he can catch it. He follows Angel's shrinking taillights for another half a block out of sheer spite. Only when he's winded and alone in the middle of the empty street does Dean realize that he's still got his bloody knife in one hand like some asshole in a slasher movie. He stashes it under his coat and swipes at his split lip with a thumb that's tacky with Angel's blood.

This game just gets more and more interesting.

* * *

Author's Note:_ I'm so sorry, you guys! I've been horrible about updating this story but thank you for being so patient. I hope part 3 lived up to your expectations._

_Thanks for reading!_


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